XI

The Sanger Witch hated the Shanty-man’s axe
And wildfire, too, they tell,
But the hate that she had for the Sporting man
Was wuss nor her hate of Hell!

–Cracked Jimmie’s Ballad of Sanger.

Yan took his earliest opportunity to revisit the Sanger Witch.

“Better leave me out,” advised Sam, when he heard of it. “She’d never
look at you if I went. You look too blame healthy.”

So Yan went alone, and he was glad of it. Fond as he was of Sam, his
voluble tongue and ready wit left Yan more or less in the shade, made
him look sober and dull, and what was worse, continually turned the
conversation just as it was approaching some subject that was of
deepest interest to him.

As he was leaving, Sam called out, “Say, Yan, if you want to stay
there to dinner it’ll be all right–we’ll know why you hain’t turned
up.” Then he stuck his tongue in his cheek, closed one eye and went to
the barn with his usual expression of inscrutable melancholy.

Yan carried his note-book–he used it more and more, also his
sketching materials. On the road he gathered a handful of flowers and
herbs. His reception by the old woman was very different this time.

“Come in, come in, God bless ye, an’ hoo air ye, an’ how is yer father
an’ mother–come in an’ set down, an’ how is that spalpeen, Sam
Raften?”

“Sam’s all right now,” said Yan with a blush.

“All right! Av coorse he’s all right. I knowed I’d fix him all right,
an’ he knowed it, an’ his Ma knowed it when she let him come. Did she
say onything about it?”

“No, Granny, not a word.”

“The dhirty hussy! Saved the boy’s life in sphite of their robbin’ me
an’ she ain’t human enough to say ’thank ye’–the dhirty hussy!
May God forgive her as I do,” said the old woman with evident and
implacable enmity.

“Fwhat hev ye got thayer? Hivin be praised, they can’t kill them all
off. They kin cut down the trees, but the flowers comes ivery year, me
little beauties–me little beauties!” Yan spread them out. She picked
up an Arum and went on. “Now, that’s Sorry-plant, only some calls it
Injun Turnip, an’ I hear the childer call it Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Don’t
ye never put the root o’ that near yer tongue. It’ll sure burn ye like
fire. First thing whin they gits howld av a greeny the bhise throis to
make him boite that same. Shure he niver does it twicet. The Injuns
b’ile the pizen out o’ the root an’ ates it; shure it’s better’n
starvin’.”

Golden Seal (_Hydrastis canadensis_), the plant she had used for
Sam’s knee, was duly recognized and praised, its wonderful golden
root, “the best goold iver came out av the ground,” was described with
its impression of the seal of the Wise King.

“Thim’s Mandrakes, an’ they’re moighty late, an’ ye shure got
thim in the woods. Some calls it May Apples, an’ more calls it
Kingroot. The Injuns use it fur their bowels, an’ it has cured many a
horse of pole evil that I seen meself.

“An’ Blue Cohosh, only I call that Spazzum-root. Thayer ain’t nothin’
like it fur spazzums–took like tay; only fur that the Injun women
wouldn’t live in all their thrubles, but that’s something that don’t
consarn ye. Luk now, how the laves is all spread out like wan wid
spazzums. Glory be to the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, everything is
done fur us on airth an’ plain marked, if we’d only take the thruble
to luk.

“Now luk at thot,” said she, clawing over the bundle and picking out a
yellow Cypripedium, “that’s Moccasin-plant wid the Injuns, but mercy
on ’em fur bloind, miserable haythens. They don’t know nothin’ an’
don’t want to larn it. That’s Umbil, or Sterrick-root. It’s powerful
good fur sterricks. Luk at it! See the face av a woman in sterricks
wid her hayer flyin’ an’ her jaw a-droppin’. I moind the toime Larry’s
little gurrl didn’t want to go to her ’place’ an’ hed sterricks. They
jest sent fur me an’ I brung along a Sterrick-root. First, I sez, sez
I, ’Get me some b’ilin’ wather,’ an’ I made tay an’ give it to her
b’ilin’ hot. As share as Oi’m a livin’ corpse, the very first spoonful
fetched her all right. Oh, but it’s God’s own gift, an’ it’s be His
blessin’ we know how to use it. An’ it don’t do to just go an’ dig it
when ye want it. It has to be grubbed when the flower ain’t thayer. Ye
see, the strength ain’t in both places to oncet. It’s ayther in the
flower or in the root, so when the flower is thayer the root’s no more
good than an ould straw. Ye hes to Hunt fur it in spring or in fall,
just when the divil himself wouldn’t know whayer to find it.

“An’ fwhat hev ye thayer? Good land! if it ain’t Skunk’s Cabbage! Ye
sure come up by the Bend. That’s the on’y place whayer that grows.”

“Yes,” replied Yan; “that’s just where I got it. But hold on, Granny,
I want to sketch all those and note down their names and what you say
about them.”

“Shure, you’d hev a big book when I wuz through,” said the old woman
with pride, as she lit her pipe, striking the match on what would have
been the leg of her pants had she been a man.

Yan feebly agreed, but had much difficulty in seeing what the plant
had in common with the others.

“An’ luk here! Thayer ye got Lowbelier, that some calls Injun
tobaccer. Ye found this by the crick, an’ it’s a little airly–ahead
o’ toime. That’s the shtuff to make ye throw up when ye want to. Luk,
ain’t that lafe the livin’ shape of a shtummick?

“Thayer’s the Highbelier; it’s a high hairb, an’ it’s moighty foine
fur the bowels when ye drink the dry root.

“Luk now, an’ see how it’s wrote in it plain as prent–yes, an’ a
sight plainer, fur I can read them an’ I can’t read a wurrud in a
book. Now fwhat is that loike?” said she, holding up the double
seed-pod.

“Thayer’s Goldthread fur cankermouth, an’ Pipsissewa that cures fayver
an’ rheumatiz, too. It always grows where folks gits them disayses.
Luk at the flower just blotched red an’ white loike fayver
blotches–an’ Spearmint, that saves ye if ya pizen yerself with
Spaszum-root, an’ shure it grows right next it in the woods!

“Thayer’s Wormseed fur wurrums–see the ’ittle wurrum on the leaves"
[Chenopodium] “an’ that thayer is Pleurisy root, an’ thayer!
well, thayer’s the foinest hairb that iver God made to grow–that’s
Cure all. Some things cures wan thing and some cures another, but when
ye don’t know just what to take, ye make tay o’ that root an’ ye can’t
go wrong. It was an Injun larned me that. The poor miserable baste of
a haythen hed some larnin’, an’ the minit he showed me I knowed it was
so, fur ivery lafe wuz three in wan an’ wan in three, an’ had the sign
o’ the blessed crass in the middle as plain as that biler settin’ on
the stove.”

Thus she chattered away, smoking her short pipe, expectorating on the
top of the hot stove, but with true feminine delicacy she was careful
each time to wipe her mouth on the back of her skinny arm.

“An’ that’s what’s called Catnip; sure Oi moind well the day Oi furst
larned about that. It warn’t a Injun nor a docther nor a man at all,
at all, that larned me that. It was that ould black Cat, an’ may the
saints stand bechuxt me an’ his grane eyes! Bejabers, sometimes he
scares me wid his knowin’ ways, but I hev nothin’ agin him except that
he kills the wee burruds. He koind o’ measled all wan winter an’ lay
around the stove. Whiniver the dooer was open he’d go an’ luk out an’
then come back an’ meow an’ wheen an’ lay down–an’ so he kep’ on,
gittin’ waker an’ worser, till the snow wuz gone an’ grass come up,
an’ still he’d go a-lukin’ toward the ayst, especially nights. Then
thayer come up a plant I had never sane, right thayer, an’ he’d luk at
it an’ luk at it loike he wanted it but didn’t dar to. Thar was some
foine trays out thayer in thim days afore the ould baste cut thim
down, an’ wan av thim hed a big limb, so–an’ another so–an’ when the
moon come up full at jest the right time the shaddy made the sign av
the crass an’ loighted on me dooer, an’ after it was past it didn’t
make no crass. Well, bejabers, the full moon come up at last an’ she
made the sign of the shaddy crass, an’ the ould Cat goes out an’
watches an’ watches loike he wanted to an’ didn’t dar to, till that
crass drapped fayer onto the hairbs, an’ Tom he jumped then an’ ate
an’ ate, an’ from that day he was a well Cat; an’ that’s how Oi larned
Catnip, an’ it set me moind aisy, too, fur no Cat that’s possesst ’ll
iver ate inunder the shaddy av the crass.”

Yan was scribbling away, but had given up any attempt to make sketches
or even notes beyond the names of the plants.

“Shure, choild, put them papers wid the names on the hairbs an’ save
them; that wuz fwhat Docther Carmartin done whin Oi was larnin’
him. Thayer, now, that’s it,” she added, as Yan took the hint and
began slipping on each stalk a paper label with its name.

“That’s a curious broom,” said Yan, as his eye fell on the symbol of
order and cleanliness, making strange reflections on itself.

“How?” asked Yan, picking it up and examining it with intense
interest.

“Whoi, shure, by whittlin’. Larry’s a howly terror to whittle, an’
he gets a Blue Baitche sapling ’bout three inches thick an’ starts
a-whittlin” long slivers, but laves them on the sthick at wan end till
thayer all round loike that.”

“What, like a fire-lighter?”

“Yis, yis, that’s it, only bigger, an Blue Baitche is terrible tough.
Then whin he has the sthick down to ’bout an inch thick, he ties all
the slivers the wrong way wid a sthrand o’ Litherwood, an’ thrims down
the han’el to suit, an’ evens up the ind av the broom wid the axe an’
lets it dhry out, an’ thayer yer is. Better broom was niver made, an’
there niver wus ony other in th’ famb’ly till he married that Kitty
Connor, the lowest av the low, an’ it’s meself was all agin her, wid
her proide an’ her dirthy sthuck-up ways’ nothin’ but boughten things
wuz good enough fur her, her that niver had a dacint male till
she thrapped moi Larry. Yis, low be it sphoken, but ’thrapped’ ’s the
wurrud,” said the old woman, raising her voice to give emphasis that
told a lurid tale.

At this moment the door opened and in came Biddy, and as she was the
daughter of the unspeakable Kitty the conversation turned.

“An’ sure it’s glad to see ye I am, an’ when are ye comin’ down to
reside at our place?” was her greeting to Yan, and while they talked
Granny took advantage of the chance to take a long pull at a bottle
that looked and smelled like Lung-balm.

“Moi, Biddy, yer airly,” said Granny.

“Shure, an’ now it was late whin I left home, an’ the schulmaster says
it’s always so walking from ayst to west.”

“An’ shure it’s glad Oi am to say ye, fur Yan will shtop an ate wid
us. It ain’t duck an’ grane pase, but, thank God, we hev enough an’ a
hearty welcome wid ivery boite. Ye say, Biddy makes me dinner ivery
foine day an’ Oi get a boite an’ a sup for meself other toimes, an’
slapes be me lone furby me Dog an’ Cat an’ the apples, which thayer
ain’t but a handful left, but fwhat thar is is yourn. Help yerself,
choild, an’ ate hearty,” and she turned down the gray-looking
bedclothes to show the last half-dozen of the same rosy apples.

“’Sorra a wurrud,’ sez Oi, ’an’ good frinds we’ll be yit,’ an’ they
wuz makin’ fur the dooer to clayer out whin I sez:

“’Howld on! Me friends can’t lave me house an’ naither boite nor sup;
turn yer backs an’ ye plaze, till Oi get on me skirt.’ An’ whin Oi wuz
up an’ dacint an’ tould them they could luk, Oi sez, ’It’s the foinest
Lung balm in the land ye shall taste,’ an’ the littlest feller he
starts a-coughin’, oh, a turrible cough–it fair scairt me, like a
hoopin’ croup–an’ the other seemed just mad, and the littlest wan
made fun av him. Oi seen the mean wan wuz left-handed or let on he
wuz, but when he reached out fur the bottle he had on’y three fingers
on his right, an’ they both av them had the biggest, blackest,
awfulest lukin’ bairds–I’d know them two bairds agin ony place–an’
the littlest had a rag round his head, said he had a toothache, but
shure yer teeth don’t ache in the roots o’ yer haiyer. Then when they
wuz goin’ the littlest wan put a dollar in me hand an’ sez, ’It’s all
we got bechuxst us, Granny.’ ’Godbless ye,’ sez Oi, ’an’ Oi take it
kindly. It’s the first Oi seen sense apple harvest, an’ it’s a friend
ye hev in me whin ye nade wan,’” and the old woman chuckled over her
victory.

“Granny, do you know what the Indians use for dyeing colours?” asked
Yan, harking back to his main purpose.

“Shure, Yahn, they jest goes to the store an’ gets boughten dyes in
packages like we do.”

“But before there were boughten dyes, didn’t they use things in the
woods?”

“That they did, for shure. Iverything man iver naded the good Lord
made grow fur him in the woods.”

“Yes, but what plants?”

“Faix, an’ they differ fur different things.”

“Yes, but what are they?” Then seeing how general questions failed, he
went at it in detail.

“What do they use for yellow dye on the Porcupine quills–I mean
before the boughten dyes came?”

“Well, shure an’ that’s a purty yellow flower that grows in the fall
out in the field an’ along the fences. The Yaller Weed, I call it,
an’ some calls it Goldenrod. They bile the quills in wather with the
flower. Luk! Thar’s some wool dyed that way.”

“An’ the red?” said Yan, scribbling away.

“Faix, an’ they had no rale good red. They made a koind o’ red o’
berry juice b’iled, an’ wanst I seen a turrible nice red an ol’ squaw
made b’ilin’ the quills fust in yaller awhile an’ next awhile in red.”

“What berries make the best red, Granny?”

“Well, ’tain’t the red wans, as ye moight think. Ye kin make it of
Rosberries or Sumac or Huckleberries an’ lots more, but Black Currants
is redder than Red Currants, an’ Squaw berries is best av them all.”

“What are they like?”

“Shure, an’ Oi’ll show ye that same hairb,” and they wandered around
outside the shanty in vain search. “It’s too airly,” said Granny, “but
it’s round thayer in heaps in August an’ is the purtiest red iver
grew. ’An Pokeweed, too, it ain’t har’ly flowerin’ yit, but in the
fall it hez berries that’s so red they’re nigh black, an’ dyes the
purtiest kind o’ a purple.”

“What makes blue?”

“Oi niver sane none in the quills. Thayer may be some. The good Lord
made iverything grow in the woods, but I ain’t found it an’ niver seen
none. Ye kin make a grane av the young shoots av Elder, but it ain’t
purty like that,” and she pointed to a frightful emerald ribbon that
Biddy wore, “an’ a brown of Butternut bark, an’ a black av White Oak
chips an’ bark. Ye kin make a kind o’ grane av two dips, wan of yaller
an wan av black. Ye kin dye black wid Hickory bark, an’ orange (bad
scran to it) wid the inner bark of Birch, an’ yaller wid the roots
av Hoop Ash, an’ a foine scarlet from the bark av the little root av
Dogwood, but there ain’t no rale blue in the woods, an’ that’s what I
tell them orange-an’-blue Prattisons on the 12th o’ July, fur what the
Lord didn’t make the divil did.

“Ye kin make a koind of blue out o’ the Indigo hairb, but ’tain’t like
this,” pointing to some screaming cobalt, “an’ if it ain’t in the
woods the good Lord niver meant us to have it. Yis! I tell ye it’s
the divil’s own colour, that blue-orange an’ blue is the divil’s own
colours, shure enough, fur brimstone’s yaller; an’ its blue whin it’s
burnin’, that I hed from his riv’rince himself–bless him!”